Trying not to think of gators and cottonmouths, Fargo waded in. It didn’t help that he couldn’t see under the surface. Anything could be down there.
The water rose to his knees. It rose to his waist. Kicking off, he swam after the pirogue. It was moving faster. A current had caught it.
Fargo pumped his arms and legs. He was a fair swimmer, but only fair. His skin never crawled as it was crawling now. He hated this, hated it with all he was.
To his left were floating plants he didn’t know the name of. As he came up to them, they bulged upward. Something was underneath, and moving toward him.
Fargo wished he had the Colt. He wished it even more when an alligator’s snout appeared. Then the eyes and the rest of the head. It was staring at him. He swam faster.
The short distance to the pirogue seemed like a mile.
Fargo glanced back just as the alligator sank under the water. Relief coursed through Fargo. He thought the gator had gone back under the plants. But no, a second later it reappeared, all of it this time, its tail flicking as it gave chase in an almost leisurely fashion.
It didn’t matter that the gator wasn’t much over five feet long. Its mouth was rimmed with the same sharp teeth as all other gators.
It could rip him open and take him under just as a bigger one would.
Fargo swam harder. Twenty feet to the pirogue, and the gator was more than halfway to him. He realized he wouldn’t reach it in time. Stopping, he dog-paddled and brought his legs up to his chest. He had to pry at his pant leg to get hold of the Arkansas toothpick.
The alligator slowed and circled. Evidently it was unsure if he was suitable prey.
Fargo held the knife under the water and turned to keep the gator in front of him. He knew how fast they could strike. He also watched its tail. A blow from that could stun him and make him an easy meal.
The gator swam slowly.
Maybe it was only curious but Fargo couldn’t count on that. From the island came yells. Remy and Namo were coming but they were a ways off yet.
“Fargo? Have you seen the Indian?”
“Why don’t you answer?”
Fargo wanted to but it might provoke the alligator into attacking. The thing was beginning another circle. He continued to turn but his legs were growing tired. He couldn’t tread water forever.
“Fargo? Where are you?”
Fargo took a gamble. They had rifles. They could scare the alligator off or send it to the bottom. “Here!” he hollered. “Come quick!”
The gator exploded into motion, coming at him with its mouth agape. Fargo kicked to one side and the jaws snapped shut inches from his chest. In an effort to keep them closed he grabbed at the snout and nearly lost his fingers. Swimming backward to put distance between them, he felt something bump his right leg. Something alive. Something that coiled around his leg as a snake would do. He glanced down but couldn’t see what it was.
“Hell!”
A gator near him and a snake under him.
Fargo kicked but the snake—if it was one—clung on. And just then the alligator came at him, going for his neck and face. Which was exactly what Fargo wanted it to do. Twisting, he thrust up and in, sinking the toothpick to the hilt in the gator’s throat.
In a twinkling the gator turned and swam for its plant sanctuary, the water growing bright with blood.
Fargo kicked at whatever was wrapped around his one leg and whatever it was slid off. He looked for the snake to rise up and bite him but nothing appeared. Not wasting another moment, he swam for the pirogue, which had lodged against a moss-encrusted cypress. He pulled himself up and over and lay on the bottom, grateful to be alive. A shaft of sunlight warmed his face but the rest of him was soaked. He slowly sat up and got hold of one of the paddles.
“Fargo? What on earth are you doing out there?”
“And where’s the canoe?”
Remy and Namo were at the swamp’s edge.
“Hold on,” Fargo replied. He pushed free of the tree and made for the island. There was no sign of the alligator. Or of the Mad Indian, for that matter.
“You let him get away?” Namo said in reproach after Fargo had explained. “All we have done and we have nothing to show for it.”
“He did what he could,” Remy defended him. “Or did you miss the part about the alligator?”
Fargo was wiping the toothpick dry on grass. “I don’t know about you two, but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life searching this godforsaken swamp. There’s only one thing left for us to do.”
Remy nodded. “We lure the razorback to us. Just as I have been saying we should do.”
“We’re not even sure it will work,” Namo objected.
“There’s plenty of wood on this island,” Fargo noted. “We’ll make a big fire, one that can be seen from a long ways off. The Mad Indian is bound to spot it. And with any luck, he’ll set the boar on us.”
“How do we kill it when it comes?” Namo asked.
“I have a plan,” Skye Fargo said.
17
The sun had set an hour ago.
With the fading of the light and the advent of night, the creatures that liked the dark emerged and filled the air with their cries. Alligators bellowed. Frogs croaked. An occasional roar or shriek added to the din. The bleats and screams of prey told of predators hungry to fill their bellies.
On an island in the middle of that vast maze of water and violent life, Skye Fargo listened to the bedlam and was reminded of the Rockies. In the mountains, too, nighttime was when most of the meat-eaters were abroad. The yips of coyotes, the howls of wolves, the roars of bears and the screech of mountain lions—he looked forward to hearing them again, to being back in his element.
Here the bedlam was louder, and practically constant. Rare were the moments when the swamp fell still.
It was during one of those rare moments that Fargo heard a far-off squeal, and smiled. His shoulders were sore from all the digging they had done, but the work might prove worth it. From his hiding place in a thicket, he gazed out at the noisily crackling fire, and near it what appeared to be freshly overturned dirt.
“Pay us a visit, you bastard.”
They were ready for the razorback, or as ready as they could hope to be. If it came, they stood a chance of ending the slaughter.
From where Fargo hunkered he couldn’t see the others. Remy was under a tree. Namo was in one.
Fargo fingered the Sharps and shifted to relieve a cramp. It would be a long night if the razorback didn’t show. He was glad his buckskins had finally dried. He’d had to sit uncomfortably close to the fire for half an hour.
Another squeal, closer than before.
Fargo munched on a piece of bread and imagined he was eating one of Liana’s delicious meals. His stomach growled.
So did something else, from off in the brush.
Fargo tensed, then relaxed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the razorback. A cat of some kind, most likely a bobcat, and bobcats hardly ever attacked people. When they did, it was usually children. Fargo thought of Halette and Clovis, motherless. He thought of Pensee and Hetsutu.
“God, I hope you come.”
Something rustled. A snake or some other small animal. Whatever it was moved away from him.
The wait wore on Fargo’s nerves. The shadows seemed imbued with life. Leaves and branches moved but it was only the wind.
He heard no more squeals.
It was pushing midnight when a certain cry pricked Fargo’s ears. He raised his head to hear better. It was repeated, not once but many times. The cry of a rabbit in distress.